


Making Me A Habit

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pet Store, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Civilian Clint Barton, Kittens, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern Era, Pet Adoption, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, WinterHawk Big Bang, archery instructor Clint Barton, so many kittens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Bucky is a disabled vet struggling with reintegrating into civilian life. He has a routine and a rhythm, and he doesn't like to let anything - big or small - disrupt it. That all changes the day Bucky finds himself inside CATastrophe, the local pet rescue, recovering from a panic attack in the back room of the shop.He’s used to walking by the place, not visiting, but the next thing Bucky knows, he’s hanging signs and being used as a climbing tree for a bunch of freshly-acquired kittens.  And he just...keeps going back. First for the kittens, then for the disaster shop owner who rescues actual kittens from actual trees and teaches archery as a side-gig, and eventually because he’s hopelessly in love.(Clint was in love before Bucky ever walked in the door.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 138
Kudos: 672
Collections: Winterhawk Big Bang 2020





	Making Me A Habit

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, it was delightful and wonderful and amazing to get not one but TWO artists for this event. Soapyquartz and Notalltheremyself were both equally delightful to work with and far more talented than I deserved! They will be creating individual AO3 works for the art that goes with this fic and linking it back, and I am begging you to go and look at the amazing content they created, especially after this story ended up growing an extra several thousand words I didn't expect! They were amazingly patient and mabe beautiful, beautiful art!
> 
> Second of all, a thousand thanks to Steph who beta read and hand-held this fic as she does most everything these days, and to Amy for helping me with some sticky plot points, and to Amy and Nny who helped bring the Howling Commandoes to life so that they had more personality than "wears a hat and has a stupid moustache" and "possibly French". I love you all, thanks for making this fandom a terrific space to be in.

Bucky had a routine. It was one of the things that kept him sane after… everything. After his military career had been blown up (literally!), after coming back to the States sans an arm, after months of living with first his parents and then with Steve before finally finding a place of his own, after therapy of every kind imaginable. A routine meant that he knew where and when he would be any given place, that things were predictable, expected. Safe. 

On Mondays he had individual therapy. On Wednesdays he had group. On Tuesday and Thursday he had physical therapy. On Fridays he went to the coffee shop two blocks down and got a scone and whatever specialty drink was being advertised that week. Saturdays and Sundays were reserved for time with his family or Steve or both. 

It was comforting, his routine. All of his appointments were at the VA, which meant he took the same route every day, down the same street and past the same shops and sometimes by the same people. He recognized faces, storefronts, and signs. It reminded him he was _here_ , present and accounted for, if missing some of his pieces. Home in New York where he belonged. 

He had favorite bits of the walk. He liked the snarky chalkboard at the sandwich place at the halfway point, and the man who carried a rainbow umbrella whatever the weather, and the way the bakery always smelled of something delicious, no matter the time of day. He especially liked the pet adoption place, tucked away in a corner and innocuous in every way except for the signs in the window. _Naughty Furball of the Week_ it proclaimed, in slightly lopsided letters. Below was always a photo of some animal, cute and fluffy and unassuming, along with the alleged crime. 

_Perfected the art of food thievery, even from his friends’ mouths._

_Managed to avoid bath day by hiding under the desk._

_Learning bad habits from Chowder._

And the one that had made him laugh out loud: _Outright obnoxious_. 

They were coupled with another set of photos and praises, _Furry Friend of the Week_ , which included gems like _Punctual, eats first and leaves first,_ and _Snuggled a member of the public for the first time_. 

Sometimes, if Bucky was a little early, he stopped to admire the signs, looking at the featured kittens and puppies and, occasionally, more exotic animals like ferrets. It was called Clint’s CATastrophe and it was a little run-down and a little bit homey, with a worn-in recliner clearly visible through the window and a plethora of animals - everything _but_ cats, it sometimes seemed like - running a bit wild inside. The window had stickers on it, along the edges, adverts for an archery place, a tattoo joint, a pizza restaurant Bucky had never heard of, and a dozen other small business, along with a Pride decal in the corner that proclaimed ‘Love Wins’ in rainbow letters. Occasionally Bucky caught sight of the owner, tall and blond and usually chasing something unseen.

**

It was a Monday when it happened. 

He’d had a good weekend. Steve had hosted a cook-out on the roof of his apartment building, a gathering small enough that Bucky had felt comfortable the whole time, nursing a single beer and cracking jokes about their shared childhood. Which meant that when it _did_ happen, Bucky was completely unprepared. He was nearly to his appointment - only a few blocks away - when everything went to hell. 

Or his brain did anyway. 

Later, he would recognize that the sound had been a car backfiring, poorly maintained and acting up in the New York City traffic. But at the time it had just been a horrifically familiar _bang_ and then Bucky was instantly back in the desert, where gunfire and explosions had been his everyday life. Where his friends had died.

Where he’d lost his arm. 

Somehow, Bucky lost the plot. There was the sound and then the overwhelming sensation of being on alert, of assessing for threat and being confused by his surroundings. 

And then there had been a person. Talking gently and calmly, guiding him to promised safety. There’d been no pain or surprises. No more unexpected sounds, no sudden movements. Just the strength of a hand that touched gently and the blessed silence of the inside of the building.

When Bucky came back to himself, he was in an unfamiliar room, supplied with every manner of climbing tree and catnip toy, pizza-shaped and mouse-shaped and some with feathers, with a mug of something hot in his hand and a kitten in his hair. And one up his empty sleeve. And one curled in his lap. 

There were a surprising number of kittens for a post-panic attack moment. 

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered shakily, blowing his breath out slowly. His heart was racing and he could feel cold sweat pooling uncomfortably at the base of his spine. The mug in his hand was trembling slightly, but not full enough to really spill unless he let it go. It smelled like coffee, deep and rich, and peppermint. It was light enough Bucky could tell someone had added creamer to it and he took a tentative sip. It was sweet and reminded him vaguely of Christmas. 

“Hey, man,” someone said, soft, cautious, like they didn’t want to disturb him. “You back with us?”

Bucky glanced up and across the room - far enough away that even his hypervigilant brain couldn’t read the speaker as a threat. It was a guy, blond and broad, with his legs stretched out in front of him and so long Bucky could tell he’d be tall if he was standing up. He might have been intimidating, even without standing up, if he hadn’t been covered in Hello Kitty bandaids and he didn’t have a fat golden retriever stretched out across his lap, snoring softly. The bright purple hearing aids took some of the intimidation factor away too, though not as much as the bandaids. 

“Yeah,” Bucky managed, swallowing roughly. “Yeah, thanks.”

It took him a minute to place his surroundings. He’d never been in CATastrophe before, but he recognized the white kitten in his lap from his appearance on the Naughty List every other week. The blond was familiar too, but only in a passing way - like his brain had taken note and then dismissed him as a threat - so the breadth of his shoulders was familiar, and the slope of his neck, but Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever got a good look at his face. 

The kitten meowed loudly, pawing at the strings of Bucky’s hoodie and making a valiant effort to climb the front of it. Bucky could feel the needle-prick of his claws even through the thick cotton and a t-shirt, and it was enough to ground him even more in the present. 

“No problem,” the guy told him. “I wasn’t sure-” He paused, cocking his head a little and looking sheepish. “I didn’t wanna get in your space, but you looked like you were freakin’ out and people were starting to stare. I thought it’d be better if I got you inside.” He shrugged gracelessly, almost self-conscious about it. 

Bucky shuddered at the thought of being stared at by strangers while he had what Steve very kindly called ‘an episode’ when they’d happened far more frequently. “Yeah,” Bucky agreed, “that’s- thanks. This is better.” He hefted the cup of coffee that was sweeter than he liked it but still comforting in its warmth. 

“Cool.” The statement was accompanied by a crooked grin, made endearing by the bright pink band-aid across his nose. “Cool. Listen, I gotta bunch of stuff to do around here,” the guy gestured vaguely at the room, encompassing the clutter of cat toys and kittens, and the sounds beyond the room of scrabbling paws and chirps. “But hang out as long as you want. No one is gonna bother you here, no worries.”

Bucky gave him a brittle smile. A fourth kitten had come to investigate - the white one had managed to scrabble its way up onto Bucky’s shoulder and was now chewing on his hair - struggling to climb into Bucky’s lap. He sat the coffee down and used his hand to gently lift it, until it had all four paws balanced precariously on his thigh. He picked the cup back up once he was sure it was settled, and took another long sip, letting the heat settle under his ribs and soothe the remaining panic there. He needed to text his therapist and let him know he wasn’t gonna make it, and he probably needed to text Steve to come and get him, walk back to his apartment with him so that Bucky wasn’t on high alert all the way home, didn’t give himself another attack. 

But for now he had a cup of coffee and a safe place to ride out the worst of it, and a sleeping kitten on his head. He could stay for a bit. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, quiet but sincere, and the guy shrugged in that same sheepish way. 

“No big deal,” he said. He nudged the dog in his lap gently, who climbed off of him with the kind of long-suffering disgruntlement that only spoiled dogs managed, before shuffling a little ways away and flopping onto its side on the ground, where it was immediately bombarded by other kittens who weren’t as interested in Bucky. “I’m Clint,” the guy added, dusting dog hair off his pants like he wasn’t covered in animal hair from practically head to toe. 

“Bucky,” Bucky managed, because he’d been right, the guy was _tall_. He would have to crane his neck to look up at him, except for there was still a kitten on his head. Fuck, he was probably taller than _Steve_. 

“Nice to meetcha, Bucky,” Clint said, another crooked grin on his face. 

Bucky couldn’t truthfully say the same, not under the circumstances, but he tried to smile a little in agreement as he brought his coffee mug to his mouth so he wouldn’t have to respond verbally. 

He hung out a little while longer, long enough that his skin wasn’t crawling and he wasn’t flinching at unexpected noises. Long enough that Steve had texted back to let him know he was on the corner and his therapist had responded that they could reschedule for later in the week if he wanted, and then Bucky gently - so gently - untangled the kitten on his head and the one on his shoulder, and got shouted at as he sat them on the ground, all of them yelling their displeasure at him loudly. The little white one tried twice more to climb up his front side before Bucky managed to get the other two off of him, making him smile. 

“You’ve got to stay here,” he told it firmly. “I need to be heading back.”

“Feel free to take him with you,” Clint said from the doorway, amusement low in his voice. “He’s a menace, that one.”

“Chowder, right?” Bucky asked, climbing to his feet. 

Clint blinked at him in surprise.

“He’s always on the Naughty List,” Bucky explained, feeling embarrassment crowding its way up his throat. “I’ve- I read the posters, sometimes.”

Clint burst into unfettered laughter, his head thrown back. “He’s the _worst_ ,” he confirmed. 

“It’s because Chowder is an awful name for a cat,” Bucky told him, even as Clint kept laughing, scrubbing at his face in amusement. “No wonder he acts up.”

“Come up with something better for him, then,” Clint told him. “I name like a thousand animals a week around here, I’m runnin’ out of ideas.”

Bucky snorted, but he didn’t offer any suggestions. Just passed Clint the coffee mug as he headed for what he thought was the front of the shop. Clint kept his distance, obviously trying to respect Bucky’s space, and Bucky appreciated it. He could see Steve through the front window, standing anxiously at the corner with his hands in his pockets and scanning the crowds.

“Thanks for this,” Bucky said, turning back before he got within clear view. “I really appreciate it.” He tried to project as much sincerity as he felt into the words.

“You’re welcome,” Clint told him, eyes still crinkled up in good humor but softened by Bucky’s soft words. “Come back any time,” he added. “I’ve always got a load of kittens to name.”

Bucky snorted before pushing his way out the door. He didn’t think he’d be back, more than just in passing like usual, but it was a nice offer anyway. He gave Clint one last wave as he pointed himself in Steve’s direction, letting Steve fall in at his six, just like when they’d been in the army together, back before everything had gone to hell.

He didn’t think he’d be back, but the idea of it lingered as much as the cat hair on his jeans. 

**

Bucky didn’t go back inside the shop. He kept to his routine, walking past it nearly every day and noting the posters and catching glimpses of the guy who’d helped him out, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t go in, even though sometimes he wanted to. Especially when Chowder was on the naughty list three weeks in a row, a new picture each week that featured the tiny white fluffball with the bright blue eyes. But he didn’t stop. 

Not until he passed by a few weeks later and the owner - _Clint_ \- was struggling to change the photos on the posters, his right arm in a sling and clearly unwieldy with his left. 

“You need a hand?” he asked, spontaneously enough that he almost surprised himself as much as Clint, who jerked and half turned, trying to hold the photo in place and see Bucky at the same time. 

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Was that-” he bit back the rest of the sentence, clearly unsure if he should finish it, but Bucky’d already known where it was headed as soon as his own words had left his mouth. 

“I have exactly one to spare,” he added, waving his remaining arm at Clint. “And since I see you aren’t putting my favorite kitten back on the naughty list this week, I’m willing to offer it up.” 

Clint snorted. He was trying in vain to attach a photo of a ferret on the naughty list, and Bucky had no idea how he was gonna manage to write in the alleged crime. “Sure,” he sighed, finally giving up. “I’ll hold the photo, you do the tape?”

Between the two of them - and an automatic tape dispenser that Clint slipped over his good hand so that Bucky could pull strips of tape out of it - they managed to get the photo hung, and Clint good-naturedly handed him a black dry-erase marker to fill out the crimes. 

“What is it this week?” Bucky asked, amused despite himself. “Treat thief? Escape artist?” He ran through what he knew about ferrets, which wasn’t much, but the thing’s name was Bandit. “Museum robbery?”

Clint laughed, his face scrunching up - this week’s bandaid was apparently Robin, from the Batman cartoon, tights and all - and he shook his head. “I think you pay a lot more attention to the signs than you implied at our last meeting.” Bucky snorted, ducking his head. Maybe he did, but he hadn’t consciously noted it until now. “No, he likes to push kittens off the climbing trees.” 

Bucky couldn’t hold in a sound of shocked outrage, and that just set Clint off laughing again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. While Clint was still snorting, Bucky dutifully wrote in _Attempted Kitten Murder - Multiple Counts_ in the all-caps, slightly cramped writing he’d picked up in the Army, years of filling out forms with brutal precision permanently ingrained in his penmanship. 

“Done,” he announced, with satisfaction, and Clint scrubbed at his face before looking over Bucky’s sign, which just resulted in another bout of barely-contained amusement from him. 

Bucky reached out and plucked the other photo from Clint’s hand, looking to see who was on the Nice List. To his surprise it was Chowder, and Bucky felt his eyebrows go up. “Oh, has someone finally learned some manners?”

“Not at all,” Clint laughed, “but he’s been pushing Bandit off the climbing trees in retaliation, so it seemed like as close as he’ll ever get to good behavior.” 

_Standing up to bullies_ , Bucky wrote on the other blank space, and then waited patiently while Clint positioned the photo just how he wanted it so Bucky could tape it down securely. 

“You want a cup of coffee?” Clint asked when they were done. “It’s… probably fresh? I can make fresh, actually. And I’ve got about eleventy billion flavored creamers, Kate keeps me stocked up for some reason.”

Something in Bucky’s chest warmed up at the offer, settling in that same place under his ribs that had felt so secure the last time Bucky’d been in the shop being a glorified kitten tree. And it was nice to have helped Clint out, especially after he’d been so generous and careful about Bucky’s panic attack last time. He glanced down at his watch and grimaced. 

“I can’t,” he said, frowning. He always built a little extra time into his commute, but he needed to be at his appointment in about fifteen minutes and it would take at least ten to get there. He looked up just in time to see Clint’s face fall briefly, before he smoothed it over with a polite smile.

“That’s cool, I understand, just thought I’d offer, you know. Like a thanks, or whatever, you don’t-”

Bucky cut off the string of chatter by speaking over him. “Maybe next time?” he said, because he really couldn’t get past that feeling of gratefulness he’d had when Clint had helped him, and he could see that Clint was probably having a bit of trouble with his arm out of commission, and god knew Bucky knew how that felt. “I have an appointment now, but I could come by early next week and help you change the signs? And coffee?”

Clint lit up like a Christmas tree, though Bucky could see how he was doing his best to hide it, his expression contorting itself into a semblance of polite interest. The shine of his eyes and the way his lips kept twitching gave him away, but Bucky wasn’t gonna call him on it. It probably said something sad about the state of affairs if Clint was this excited about a twitchy, one-armed vet helping him hang posters and drink coffee. 

Hell, maybe the guy was lonely.

Bucky knew a little bit about that too. 

“Sure,” Clint said, a little too fast. “Sure, that’d be great.”

“Okay,” Bucky said carefully, taking a half step back to put some space between them but not interrupting the foot traffic of New York sidewalks. “I’ll see you Monday?”

“Monday,” Clint said with a bright grin, then both of them jerked their heads around as the sound of something inside the building toppled over. Clint slumped, scrubbing his good hand over his face in exasperation. “That’ll be another climbing tree,” he said. 

“You should weight the bases,” Bucky said impulsively, surprising himself again. He took a deep breath when Clint blinked at him inquisitively, and went ahead and finished the thought. It wasn’t often that Bucky offered up suggestions anymore. Mostly he preferred to keep to himself, but something about the fond exhaustion on Clint’s face made Bucky instinctively want to help. “Put bricks or something on ‘em so they can’t be knocked over.” Bucky wasn’t an engineer or anything, but he’d weighted enough stuff down in the service to know the value of a good cinder block. 

Clint stared at him. “That’s a good idea actually.” He gave a half-laugh that was a little self-deprecating, and nothing like the unfettered humor of before. “Don’t know how I hadn’t thought of that before.” 

Bucky shrugged awkwardly, preparing to go. He hoped he hadn’t overstepped, he hadn’t meant to make Clint feel… whatever it was the look on his face meant he was feeling. “Monday,” he said again, and tried out a brief smile. 

That brought the light back into Clint’s expression though, and Bucky’s shoulders relaxed again. “Monday,” he agreed. “I’ll make sure the coffee’s fresh.”

Bucky snorted. He’d drank coffee that’d been heated up on an engine block, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t care whether it was fresh-made or days old, truthfully, but he didn’t want to say that. “Coffee’s coffee,” he said, instead, “I’ll drink it any way I can get it.” For some reason that made Clint’s smile just a bit wider.

There didn’t seem to be anything left to say after that, so Bucky hovered awkwardly for another few seconds, and then he turned and joined the rush of people on the sidewalk, all heading off to their own lives. He glanced back to find Clint watching him thoughtfully, just before the crowd swallowed Bucky up enough that he couldn’t see his face anymore. 

At least he had something to tell his therapist this week. Bucky Barnes, maladjusted veteran, making plans outside his usual routine. Doc Samson would be thrilled. 

**

As predicted, Doc _was_ thrilled. Openly so, to the point that Bucky almost didn’t want to keep the plans out of spite. Not that he was pushy about it - he’d never pushed Bucky harder than was necessary for therapy to be successful, which is why they worked so well together - but the grin on his face when Bucky told him about the planned meet-up was enough to set Bucky’s hackles up a bit. They’d already talked through everything that had happened at Bucky’s first meeting with Clint - the panic attack and the trigger, the kindness of strangers (something Bucky thought was sorely lacking in humanity overall, to which Doc had pointed out his pessimism), and ways that Bucky could work through a similar event in the future, as it would undoubtedly come up again. 

“PTSD is a process,” Doc had told him the first time they’d met. “It’s a result of trauma you have to process. It doesn’t go away, you just learn ways to manage the symptoms. It gets better, but I don’t have a cure for you.”

It was the first truly honest thing anyone had said to Bucky about his diagnosis since he’d got out of the hospital.

“I’m just helpin’ the guy out,” Bucky grumbled, hunching in on himself, and something in Doc’s stance softened. 

“He helped you out,” Doc reminded Bucky gently, “so it’s only fair for you to help him out a bit.”

Put like that, it was a lot more palatable. Not that Bucky had been against the idea, but he resented it as some kind of therapy assignment, instead of just a thing he’d done on a whim. The Bucky who he’d been before - pre-war Bucky - had been impulsive and cheerful and easy with everyone. That Bucky had talked Steve out of at least half the trouble he’d got into, and done it with a smile on his face. 

Bucky didn’t feel like there was much of that guy left in him, these days. He wasn’t easy with anyone - not even Steve, sometimes - and that instinctual response to help everyone out had gone away with a lot of other things in the wake of his trauma. Now, Bucky mostly kept to himself, afraid to reach out a lot of the time. Some of that was a fear of rejection, and some of it was a wealth of psychiatric damage from being in a war zone at a young age, and some of it was because when Bucky had first been released from the hospital he’d alternated between crippling depression and raging fury. He was more balanced now - the drugs helped, and so did the therapy and the anger management group - but he was still a little afraid that he could lash out and maybe hurt someone. 

So while he intellectually realized that he wasn’t that guy anymore either - Bucky tended more towards deep breathing exercises and meditation than violence these days - he couldn’t forget the feelings he’d had early on, of the overwhelming need to just punch it out, all the anger and disillusionment and pain he’d felt. 

He took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. 

Doc Samson recognized the maneuver for what it was, Bucky being just this side of overwhelmed, and he blessedly changed the subject. “Are you keeping up with the journal?”

Bucky sighed. When Doc had first assigned him a therapeutic journal, he’d been skeptical. Now, though, he had a little more respect for the process. Sometimes just putting his feelings on paper helped him process them enough to identify the real problem, or the trigger, or even just move past them.

“It’s hard,” he admitted. “Writing down the way I feel or… things that I remember… even though I know no one but me will ever read it. It’s hard to be honest.”

Doc nodded, acknowledging Bucky’s thoughts but not forcing him to continue. When Bucky didn’t add anything else, he raised an eyebrow at him. “Well,” he said, “make sure you’re including some good things in there too. Small victories matter.”

Bucky tried to pretend he wasn’t talking about Clint at all, and instead just meant it in a general way, but they both knew better. 

**

The following Monday was harder than usual. Mondays were always hard anyway, the return to the ‘real world’ from the weekend. Even though Bucky didn’t have a job - he subsisted on his military disability pay - Mondays still held that same _ugh, again?_ feeling that they’d had for most of his life. It didn’t help that Monday’s were Doc’s day, where Bucky had to go be self-introspective in the kind of environment that he couldn’t retreat from. In group if he didn’t feel like talking, no one made him speak, but Doc didn’t let him get away with that shit. 

It also didn’t help that _this_ Monday in particular was different. He was a bit off his routine - he’d promised Clint that he would come by early, after all, so he’d left his apartment two hours earlier than he normally did, which threw his usual routine off just enough to leave him feeling slightly on edge. The commuters were a little different - or maybe that was in his head - but they seemed rushed and impersonal in a way that the ones he usually saw later in the morning didn’t. The sandwich shop wasn’t getting ready to open, so there was no sign outside, and the man with the rainbow umbrella was nowhere to be found.

To say Bucky was out of sorts was a bit of an understatement by the time he got to CATastrophe. 

Clint was there, though, grinning as he opened the door, his hair an absolute haystack mess and his arm still strapped to his chest. 

Bucky bit back the question he wanted to ask - how Clint had got himself hurt in the first place - because he wasn’t quite ready to reciprocate that much of himself, yet. He felt like asking the question would invite it to be asked in return, and he wasn’t in the headspace to tell the story today. 

“Hey,” he said instead, then winced at how lame he sounded. 

Clint just beamed at him. “Mornin’,” he drawled, and then shuffled through the front of the shop and down the hall Bucky hadn’t explored last time he’d been here. With the door shut, the sound of the street traffic and mass of people outside was muffled, and some of Bucky’s tension drained away with it. Inside the shop was dim and cozy, the quiet sounds of small animal life making up most of the background noise. 

Clint led him down the dim hall and into what appeared to be a messy office. There were papers stacked in various places, along with a filing cabinet, battered desk, and a computer that probably predated Bucky’s army days. Underneath was a haphazardly rolled up bedroll, tucked off to the side that made Bucky wonder just how often Clint ended up sleeping here - maybe with new kittens or a sick animal - that he kept a bedroll under the desk. 

“So!” Clint said, heading to a coffee machine that _definitely_ predated Bucky’s army days, and might even have predated his _birth_ , and began dumping grounds in the filter and flicking the machine on. He managed it one-handed with a kind of aplomb Bucky was envious of. It had taken him months to get used to only having one arm to work with; he wasn’t sure how Clint was managing at all. It only took a few seconds for the scent of fresh-brewed coffee to permeate the air, covering up the smell of paper and animals. “Would you like to guess who the naughty furry of the week is?”

“If it’s Chowder I’m not gonna help you hang the poster,” Bucky warned, making Clint laugh. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re doin’ just fine with the coffee, I don’t think you need my help at all.”

Clint snorted. “I could make coffee blindfolded and hog-tied, but I can’t sweep the damn floor like this.” He shrugged the shoulder that was strapped up in a sling. 

“It does take some practice,” Bucky agreed, accepting the mug of coffee Clint carefully passed him. It was black this time, no hint of peppermint coming off of it, and then Clint opened the minifridge that the coffeemaker itself was precariously balanced on, displaying at least a dozen bottles of flavored creamer for Bucky to choose from. 

“Pick your poison,” he said, waving his hand vaguely. 

Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell him he liked his coffee black most of the time, so he tried to look for the most inoffensive creamer in the place. 

“Which one’s your favorite?” he asked, instead of committing to a decision. He could see everything from salted caramel mocha to peanut butter cup. 

“This one!” Clint said immediately, brandishing a light blue bottle that Bucky couldn’t see the flavor of at all, because Clint’s broad palm covered the entire description. 

“Just a splash,” Bucky said, holding his cup out. He _really_ didn’t care for flavored creamers. 

Clint flicked the cap on the creamer bottle and dumped what could easily be termed a “generous” amount of creamer into Bucky’s coffee. When he raised it to his mouth, it smelled vaguely of fake vanilla and he sipped at it uneasily. There was the cloying sweetness along with the promised vanilla and something that tasted vaguely like the cupcakes Becca had made for his birthday when he’d turned eight. They’d been slightly undercooked in the center and the batter had been lumpy, but Bucky had thanked her anyway. 

He did the same thing now. 

“Thanks,” he managed around the rim of the mug, and carefully didn’t grimace. He’d ate and drank worse things in the service, and he wasn’t about to shit all over the bright smile on Clint’s face. “So, who’s on the naughty list? I meant what I said about Chowder.”

Clint laughed again. “No, we have a new contender!” He edged around Bucky, and Bucky let him, moving so that they didn’t accidentally brush up against one another. He wasn’t that big on casual touch, and casual touch with a relative stranger was probably a sure way to set him off. Clint didn’t seem put off by it though, just navigated around the small space in the office with practiced ease, carefully leaving Bucky several inches of room. He jerked his head as he went so that Bucky would follow him down the hall to the room he’d been in before. Bucky had been thinking of it as the kitten room, but when the door was open - a baby gate in place to prevent escapes - Bucky could see a few other animals as well. There was the large one-eyed retriever from before, along with a handful of puppies, and he could also see a large wire cage in the corner where a beady-eyed, familiar ferret was staring at them. 

The room was kind of a ruckus, to be honest. Animals everywhere, the sounds of playful tiny woofs and meowing kittens, and toys of all shapes and sizes. Bucky wondered how Clint had managed to get him in here the first time, and also how he’d tolerated such a zoo, but as he followed Clint through the gate into the room, the noise really didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, and the gaggle of tiny-pawed feet chasing them down was nothing but endearing. There were cat trees - helpfully weighted down by cinder blocks, Bucky couldn’t help but notice - and fluffy beds and stacks of cardboard boxes with holes cut in them for playing. It smelled of animals, but not unclean, and it was clear from the fat tummies and gleaming fur that Clint was taking good care of every animal in his charge. 

“Ah-ha!” Clint said, striding forward to lean over and pluck something up off the floor. “Here’s our problem child,” he declared, gingerly snuggling a tiny lump of black fuzz to his chest. The fuzz protested loudly, meowing with more volume than Bucky would have thought possible. 

“It’s too small to be a problem,” Bucky said, leaning in a little to get a better look. 

The kitten was tiny, with enormous eyes, and an _opinion_ on being held. It meowed right in Bucky’s face. 

“Says you,” Clint told him. “She hides until I’m busy and not paying attention, and then she tries to _eat_ me.”

Something warm curled up in Bucky’s chest. “She’s a tiny, ferocious hunter, and you are her prey. It’s cute.”

Clint laughed, and the kitten took the opportunity to dig her claws into his chest and _climb_ up the t-shirt Clint was wearing, Clint swearing and “ouching” the whole time, though he made no move at all to stop her, until she was perched on his shoulder and trying to eat his ear. “See this?” he said, pointing at the kitten as he dodged her needle-sharp teeth. “She’s a menace.”

“She is the night,” Bucky agreed sagely, and then bravely sipped his coffee again. 

The kitten had made her way around Clint’s shoulders until he was partially hunched-over trying to keep her from falling and also half-laughing, half-swearing as she dug her claws in to hold on. “She’s trying to maim me,” Clint complained. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky said, stepping closer, “give her here.” He sat the coffee down on a table nearby where he fully intended to completely forget about it, and reached for the little black fluffball. He did it a little gingerly, because unlike Clint he didn’t think he would find cat scratches funny, but he suspected if he could pin her down long enough she’d stop all the biting. 

Hopefully. 

Bucky managed to snag her off of Clint’s shoulder, though getting her claws out of his shirt required Clint’s help, and then he cradled her close to his chest, up under his chin. She made another few protesting noises, and then she bumped her head up against the stubble that was valiantly trying to become a beard on this face. He did his best to keep it trimmed, but shaving one-handed was tricky and he didn’t always have the mental energy to go in for real grooming. He had already let his hair get too long because he couldn’t really deal with clippers or scissors near his face, so it mostly hung in his face unless he got Steve or somebody to tie it back, and the overall effect was probably a little hobo-ish, but it was what Bucky could do so he did it. 

The kitten, however, didn’t seem to mind at all, because she stopped her squeaky protests to butt up against his chin, then planted her paws on his chest so that she could scrub the side of her face against his cheek. It only took about five seconds for her little body to start rumbling with the force of purring she produced, loud enough that even Clint could hear her, judging by the surprised look on his face. 

“Well,” he grinned, “looks like you have a fan.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. The kitten was trying to get to his shoulder now, the tiny pricks of her claws just barely breaching the thick cotton of his hoodie, and Bucky gave her a little boost so that she could get settled there. “She’s _not_ going on the naughty list. She’s a _baby_.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Oh my god I can already see how this is going to go. You’re playing favorites, you’re not allowed to play favorites. It’s a weakness, they can smell it on you.”

Bucky just barely stopped himself from shrugging. It was hard to give Clint the disdainful look he wanted with a kitten snuggling his face, but he did his best. 

“Fine,” Clint gave a deeply dramatic sigh. “I _guess_ Bandit can go back on the naughty list this week, he’s a food thief. And I will just ignore the deep and harrowing wounds your murder kitten has inflicted on my ankles.” He shook one foot at Bucky in example, even though he had jeans on and Bucky couldn’t see his ankles anyway. 

“Who’s on the nice list?” Bucky asked curiously, even as the kitten curled up on his shoulder, still purring lightly, with her head just under his ear. Bucky was afraid to even _breathe_ , much less try and walk with her like that, in case she fell or something equally awful. He wasn’t going to be much good at sign hanging at this rate. 

“Oh, it’s Lucky,” Clint said breezily. He was picking his way across the room, easily navigating creatures under his feet and kicking toys out of the way as he went. He made it to a closet on the far side and began hauling out bags of food, carrying them one-armed around to fill up various bowls in various places. He was making a huge mess, but he didn’t seem to mind it and neither did the animals that were scrabbling after dropped kibble. “He’s been a good dog dad this week. He always puts up with the new puppies like a champ.”

The retriever lifted his head from across the room, his tail giving a few thumps as he heard his name, but he didn’t move, and Bucky could see at least three smaller dogs curled up with him, in shades of black and brown. 

“So what can I help do?” Bucky asked, finally, when Clint had filled all the bowls and most of the animals were gathered around them, the air full of the sounds of crunching instead of all the noise that had been going on before. The kitten was still curled up on his shoulder, but Bucky figured she’d be wanting down soon enough, and she’d have to go before his appointment anyway. 

Clint scratched at the back of his head and looked around. “The signs, obviously, but uh… I dunno what else? I’ve got pretty good at doing things one-handed over the years.” He gave Bucky a wide-eyed look, stuttering to back pedal. “Not that- you know, I meant-”

Bucky snorted a laugh that was almost amused rather than bitter. “You break a lot of arms?” he asked. 

“Ah well, arms, wrists, fingers. The occasional rib.” Clint looked sheepish. Bucky just felt aghast. 

“The hell are you doing to yourself?”

“I teach archery,” Clint explained. “And I mean- learning archery can be kinda harrowing, you know, but I learned in the circus, and I fell off a couple of horses, and at least one trapeze. Oh and the strongman, once. So, you know, I have some experience being injured, you could say.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered. He could see this stretching out for eternity. Clint was clearly a trouble magnet, the same way Steve had been when they were kids, and Bucky was gonna walk by the shop and find him balanced on a ladder trying to paint the ceiling with a concussion, is what was going to happen. He could feel it in his _bones_. “You’re not still in the circus?” he checked, dreading the answer. 

“Nope, no. Not for years.” 

Well that was a relief. “But you teach archery?”

“Yeah…” Clint trailed off. 

“What?” Bucky asked, already knowing he wasn’t going to like it. 

“I teach, uh, trick shots.”

“Trick shots.” The statement was as flat as Bucky’s face felt. 

“Trick shots,” Clint confirmed, and he brightened to the subject like it wasn’t already giving Bucky a case of anxiety. “You know like, have you seen the girl who shoots a bow with her feet?”

“You shoot a bow with your feet?” Bucky felt like a parrot. 

“Well, no, but I could if I wanted to. I’m just saying, I teach trick shots, not just boring old archery.”

“And that’s how you get hurt?”

“And that’s how I get hurt,” Clint agreed. “I’m maybe getting too old for trick shots.”

Bucky just sighed. _Bucky_ was too old for Clint to be doing trick shot archery, but hell, it wasn’t his life. And anyway they weren’t exactly friends, though Clint was maybe the closest thing to a friend Bucky had made since he got home from Afghanistan. Or at least one that hadn’t had Steve behind it, egging it on with that damn _I’m so proud of you_ look on his face that had got Bucky talking to Sam. So they weren’t friends, Bucky was just here to help out, and it was probably past time for him to start doing that if he wanted to make it to his appointment with Doc. 

“Let’s get those signs up,” he said, instead of anything else, and he gently scooped the kitten off his shoulder and set her down, where she protested the treatment very loudly for a few seconds before waddling off to the nearest food bowl. 

**

The signs went up with no problem, because they’d already worked the kinks out the week before, so Clint had the tape dispenser handy and Bucky took the marker again. Then they went up just fine the next week too, while Bucky stuck around long enough to teach Clint how to sweep with just one arm. The week after that he finally managed to duck Clint’s overly-generous pour of coffee creamer and actually managed to finish a whole cup of coffee before one of the kittens tried to climb his pants leg.

Well, not _one_ of the kittens. 

_His_ kitten, or so Clint kept telling him.

He’d had the _audacity_ to name the kitten Bucket and then try to pretend he hadn’t been poking fun at Bucky when he did it. 

“Hello beautiful,” he murmured to the kitten, putting his coffee down long enough to scoop her up to his chest. 

“Thank god,” Clint grumbled. “She’s been screaming for you for hours.”

Chowder had been adopted a couple of weeks before - and Bucky prayed his new owners gave him a better name, for the love of god - and a whole new litter of kittens had come in to take his and his siblings’ places, but the little black kitten was still around. Bucky was getting dangerously attached to her, even with the stupid name. In fact, Bucky was starting to suspect that Clint gave the animals stupid names in an effort not to get attached to them, but it wasn’t really working for either one of them. 

He was starting to feel a little attached to the owner, too, which was a bit alarming. Clint’s arm was healing up nicely out of a sling and just in a cast, which meant he could do stupid things like wedge stuff under it or hook things over it to carry. Bucky didn’t know how he’d ever healed a broken bone before because he wasn’t following any doctor’s orders. It was one of the many things about him that was disgustingly endearing, like his permanent bedhead, and the way he was always tired from staying up with baby animals who were lonely and crying for their mothers, or the way he insisted on drinking the truly horrible Birthday Cake coffee creamer. 

He was growing on Bucky.

Like a fungus.

Like...a handsome, funny, thoughtful fungus with freckles and great biceps. 

Doc Samson thought it was cute, listening to Bucky’s tales of the shelter every week and gently ribbing him about his ‘obvious crush.’ 

“Just ask the guy out,” Doc had suggested, like anything at all in the world was that easy. 

The horrified look Bucky had given him in return had shut him up, at least for a little while. 

“Won’t know ‘til you try,” Doc said, then thankfully changed the subject. 

What was his life that his therapist was giving him dating advice?

Steve had started in on it, too. Steve Rogers was a nosy bitch, actually, not that anybody who didn’t know him would believe it. And he was over-protective and prone to mother-henning as well, so as soon as Bucky mentioned a new person, Steve zeroed in on it like a missile. 

“Who’s Clint?” Steve had asked, midway through Bucky talking about his day. Bucky hadn’t even realized he’d brought Clint up. 

“He’s just a guy- I’ve been helping out at the animal shelter on my way to therapy.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he watched Bucky over their plates. “The one you were at on the day I came to get you?”

“Yeah, Steve, that one. It’s the only one on my route.” The both knew Bucky didn’t deviate from the route. Which was probably why this had caught Steve’s attention so thoroughly. 

“You’ve been volunteering at an animal shelter?” Steve looked nearly gleeful, and Bucky rolled his eyes. 

“I’m just helping the guy out, I said. It’s not a big deal.”

Steve had hummed thoughtfully and let the subject change, but then he started asking about Clint regularly, and Bucky felt like he should have been scrambling to tell Steve something new about a guy he barely knew, but he always had something to say when Steve asked. Either he was telling Steve about the new litter of kittens, or the new archery student that Clint had taken on who was apparently about as likely to lose the tip of his nose as hit a target, or about the fact Clint had grown up in an honest-to-god circus, or half a dozen other details he hadn’t realized he’d committed to memory. 

Steve got that smug, satisfied look he had sometimes, the one he used to get when Bucky backed him up in a fight, but now was more likely to make an appearance anytime Bucky edged out of his comfort zone and it went well. 

“You should invite him over,” Steve said casually one Monday afternoon, over a cold beer on Bucky’s couch, where Steve had practically worn a groove with his ass from all the times he’d spent over babysitting Bucky’s anxiety about being alone in his new place. It was better now, Bucky was alone more often than not and he rarely called Steve because he was having a bad day, but the couch had never fully recovered. He was just there to hang out today, though, because it was too hot to sit on the roof and Bucky hadn’t felt like venturing out of his apartment anyway. 

Plus, Sam was at his and Steve’s place, and there was only so much of his well-meaning ribbing that Bucky could take if he wasn’t a hundred percent on his game. Nevermind that Sam usually seemed to know his limits, today Bucky had none. 

“Over where?”

“Over _here_ ,” Steve said, giving Bucky a meaningful look. 

“No.” Bucky didn’t even have to think about it. Bucky was not at all ready to have Clint Barton in his own private space, he barely managed to be in Clint’s space, for all that it was a public shop. Bucky’d only seen a handful of customers in the place in the times that he’d been there, and he frequently wondered how Clint even managed to stay in business. 

“Okay,” Steve replied carefully. “How about over for a barbeque? I could have Sam-”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupted. “No. We’re-” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “We’re barely friends,” he said after a moment, “I’m not subjecting him to you and Wilson that quick.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he gave Bucky a wide-eyed ‘who me’ look and a crooked grin, and the knot that had been winding up under Bucky’s breastbone loosened. “Sam and I are delightful company, I’ll have you know. People love us.”

Bucky snorted. “Til they know you, maybe, then you’re just a punk. And Sam’s an ass.”

Steve laughed and let the subject drop, but it preyed on Bucky’s mind even after Steve was gone, lingering in the back of his throat. He thought about it - in fits and starts - the whole rest of the week. Considered inviting Clint to come meet his friends, have a beer and a burger on Steve’s rooftop with the small circle of people he was most comfortable with.

The awful thing was that he _could_ picture it. Knew instinctively that Clint would fit in easily, giving Sam just as much shit as he dished out and probably giving Dum-Dum a run for his money with snarky remarks. He could picture it just fine, and it gave him a churning ball of emotions in his gut, a helpless mix of want and fear that he wasn’t quite ready to untangle, at least not yet. 

But soon, maybe. 

**

When Bucky turned up at CATastrophe a couple of weeks later for his usual Monday stop-in, Clint answered the door sans his cast, his arm pale and skinny-looking from the elbow down. He looked frazzled and harried, flinging the door open before Bucky even really managed to get to it.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed, relief written in the lines of his shoulders as Bucky made his way in the door. “I’m drowning here.”

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked immediately, looking around for imminent destruction.

Clint groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Someone dropped two litters of kittens off over the weekend - left them in _cardboard_ _boxes_!” He sounded downright angry about it too, growling the last words. “And I still have Bucket’s litter to find homes for, and Lucky’s sick - I think he ate something he shouldn’t have, he keeps horking shit up in random corners - and Bandit is loose somewhere in the building, God only knows what he’s got into now-”

Bucky stopped him by putting his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Breathe,” he said, when Clint turned to look, and now Bucky could see that he had bags under his eyes and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “What do you need me to do?”

Clint obligingly took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to help at all, and Bucky gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze until he took another and another, and finally he seemed to be able to catch his breath long enough to settle his thoughts. “Can- shit I don’t even know? I need to be doing about twelve things all at once, and every time I get started on one I get distracted by another.”

“Prioritize,” Bucky suggested. “Who needs feeding?”

“Everybody!”

“Let’s start there. Bandit will come out when there’s food anyway. And settle Lucky on some bedding so you can keep an eye on him and make sure he’s got some water.”

Clint nodded, kinda short but determined, and Bucky followed him into the big animal playroom. The whole place was a mess, not that it was ever orderly, but it was worse than usual today. Bucky ignored most of it, kicking things out of his way as he headed towards the locker that held food. He’d seen Clint dump enough kibble one-armed that he figured he could manage that much. “Are the kittens on food or do they need bottle feeding?” he asked, as he got the door jimmied open and squatted so he could lift the fifty pound bag of kibble. Christ, he was going to need to start going to the gym at this rate. 

Clint just stared at him for a second before giving his head a shake to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, both litters do, they’re way too tiny to be away from their mother.” He took a shaky breath. “Bucky I don’t know if-”

Bucky cut him off. “Go make bottles. I can dump kibble, same as you, and probably not make as much of a mess of it as you do.”

Clint snorted, a half-hearted grin creeping onto his face. “Yeah, we’ll see, hot shot. It’s not as easy as it looks.” He headed back out of the room to make bottles and Bucky surveyed the room to see where to start. He had kitten kibble in his hand, and then there was the special bag of food for Bandit, and a different bag for the older cats, plus Lucky’s bowl to fill. Bucky wasn’t sure he’d manage all of it before Clint got back, but he was determined to try. He was surrounded by animals from the moment the bag crinkled, and dodging furballs and pouring food was definitely more complicated and less graceful than Clint usually made it look, especially when Bucket climbed his leg and held on for the ride until he made it to the bowl she usually preferred. 

He did make more of a mess than Clint usually did, too, but he kicked the kibble closer to the bowls as he went, and as the animals pounced on it, it was mostly covered up before Clint ever got back, a basket of tiny bottles under one arm, and another basket of towels in the other. 

Towels that were squirming and making tiny squeaks, when Bucky got close enough to see. 

Inside the basket were a half-dozen tiny kittens, eyes barely open, all of them squeaking angrily as they climbed over each other and into the folds of the old, worn towels. 

“Here,” Clint said, shoving the basket of kittens at Bucky, who juggled it under his arm and propped it against his hip. “You take this and I’ll get the rest.” He flapped his hand at Bucky until Bucky went and settled himself against the wall, the basket between his knees as the kittens tried and failed to climb out of it. 

“There are more?” he managed, looking from the basket of kittens to the basket of bottles. 

“Yeah, like I said, _two_ litters,” Clint grumbled, pushing himself off his knees and turning to go.

“Wait,” Bucky said, alarmed. Cilnt turned back around. “What do I _do_?” 

Clint blinked at him in surprise and then crouched back down, closer to Bucky than he usually got. Bucky could smell the faint scent of generic soap and deodorant over the rest of the room, Clint was so close. If he’d been wearing aftershave Bucky probably could’ve smelled that too, but it was clear from the scruff on his face it’d been a few days at least since Clint had seen a razor. 

“Sorry,” Clint murmured, “you’ve been around so much lately I forgot you haven’t always been here. Here,” he picked up a squirming ball of fluff from the basket and eyeballed Bucky for a second. Clint rummaged in the basket and pulled out a smaller towel so he could tuck the kitten into it, trapping it still as he burritoed it right up, and then propped the bundle on Bucky’s thigh, with the kitten’s head up high and the bottom of the towel burrito on the floor. Then he handed Bucky a bottle. “There, now put that in her mouth and she’ll shut right up.”

Bucky did, and it took the kitten a second of gnawing to figure it out, and then she was gulping milk down hungrily. The other four kittens in the basket were still yelling. “Shouldn’t we…?” he jerked his chin at the basket.

“You can only feed one at a time,” Clint said apologetically. “It’s pretty much impossible to do more than one kitten at once, even if you had enough hands for all of them. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine for five minutes.” He still had his hand supporting the kitten as Bucky fed it, and Bucky wondered just how he was going to manage without his help. Clint moved to let go of the towel and the kitten slipped sideways, causing Bucky to jerk reflexively to help and the bottle to pop out of her mouth. She meowed plaintively. Clint made a considering sound and then-

“Okay here, try this,” he said, and scooted the kitten in closer, until she was in the crease of his thigh, and Bucky shifted his leg to try to make it a better angle, bending his knee and crossing his legs like a kindergartener. That seemed to work better, she didn’t slip when Clint moved his hand away, although by this point he was close enough Bucky ought to feel uncomfortable and was surprised to find he didn’t. 

Bucky nudged the bottle back into her mouth and she sucked at it hungrily, her eyes falling almost half-lidded and her ears fluttering. Bucky could just barely feel her feet through the towel and his jeans as she squirmed. “Is this right?” he asked softly, glancing up. 

Clint had an inscrutable look on his face, one that disappeared when he met Bucky’s eyes to be replaced with a small grin. “Yeah it’s perfect, when their ears do that you know you’ve nailed it.” He stayed crouched by Bucky for a few more seconds, both of them looking at each other, and then Clint seemed to shake whatever strange mood had fallen over him. “Let me grab the other litter as well,” he said.

“You sure this wouldn’t be faster if you did it?” Bucky asked uncertainly. Surely wrapping kittens up in towels because Bucky couldn’t hold them properly wasn’t nearly as fast as Clint doing it himself. 

“Nope,” Clint said cheerfully. “I can still only feed one kitten at a time, so we’re getting done twice as quick with you helping. Thanks, man, sorry, I haven’t said that yet today, and you’ve already done a lot.” He didn’t hang around long enough for Bucky to respond to any of that, standing up out of his crouch and darting out of the room for the other kittens. 

“Hello sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, turning back to the kitten in his lap. The bottle was half-done already, and he hoped Clint would be back in time to get him started on the next kitten before this one finished. 

They didn’t get to the signs. It turned out that feeding nearly a dozen kittens, even if two of them were doing it, took a lot longer than just cleaning up shop and hanging signs, especially when you factored in the after-feeding care they required, and the clean-up that _that_ required. It didn’t help that Lucky’d hacked up something truly disgusting in the middle of it, and Clint had had to rush to get it cleaned up before any of the other animals got into it. Before Bucky knew it, the alarm he’d learned to set the first time he’d been late to his appointment with Doc was going off in his pocket. 

“Ah, shit,” he said, reluctantly snugging the kitten he’d been holding in the basket with her brothers and sisters. “Clint, I’ve got to go.” 

Clint looked up from where he was cleaning off the last two kittens with a lopsided grin. “That’s fine, not like I can’t get the signs up myself now. Anyway this was a big help, thanks.” He still looked sallow and tired, but less frazzled than he had when Bucky’d turned up. It occurred to Bucky that this was a lot of work and Clint didn’t seem to have anyone else helping him.

“Do you-” he started, and then paused before he offered, checking his own mental state. “Do you need me to come by more often this week? This seems like a lot of work - how often do you have to feed them?”

“Every couple hours,” Clint said, and his face softened into that same strange look he’d had earlier. “But you don’t have to worry about me Buck, it’ll only be a couple of weeks until they’re on to wet food, and it’s not the first time I’ve had some sleepless nights. I’ll call Kate, see if she can help around the place.”

“Is that what you keep the bedroll in your office for? Midnight feedings?” Bucky teased gently, and Clint flushed a deep red, ducking his head to look at the kitten he was bundling into its basket. 

“Something like that,” he muttered, so low Bucky almost didn’t hear him. 

There was a strange note in his voice, and Bucky decided rather than pursuing whatever it was - it was none of his business and Clint never pried into Bucky’s business - he could think a little more about how he could help Clint out more over the next couple of weeks. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” he decided, making Clint look up sharply, surprise written across his features. Bucky couldn’t-

Bucky wasn’t sure he could promise to come every day. But he could make a choice every day about whether he would come the next day. And if he couldn’t be there every day, any time he stopped by would be a help to Clint. 

“You don’t have to-” Clint started, but Bucky cut him off.

“I know. But I can stop by and help out. It’s not a big deal.”

Clint’s face creased into a small, pleased grin, one that Bucky couldn’t help returning. At least until his phone pinged at him with a second reminder that he really needed to get going if he was planning to be on time for his appointment with Doc. 

**

It only took a few more days for Bucky to realize both he and Clint were in over their heads. He was stopping by every morning to help with feeding not just kittens but all the animals, but even with his admittedly limited help, the place was going a bit to pieces around them. The play room wasn’t nearly so clean as it usually was - cluttered, sure, but normally Clint kept it clean enough that it didn’t smell bad or even dirty, just like animals, but it was starting to take on a urine smell that made Bucky wrinkle his nose and gave him bad memories he couldn’t quite grasp and didn’t want to explore - and the dogs seemed to be going stir crazy, which Bucky assumed meant they needed to be walked or exercised, and Clint was looking progressively more wan as the days went by. 

It was time to break out the big guns. 

“Hey Steve,” Bucky said, when Steve picked up his phone Thursday afternoon, “you wanna meet Clint?”

There was a pause and then-

“What’s the catch?”

Good old Steve. He’d known Bucky far too long to be taken in by false enthusiasm and a surprise phone call. 

Bucky snorted, an almost-laugh that made Steve laugh in response, years and years of well-worn friendship rising warmly between them. “Clint needs a little more help than I can provide at the animal shelter - he’s got a load of kittens he’s trying to bottle feed and everythin’ else is kinda goin’ to shit. I thought maybe you might come with me this weekend to help him out for a few hours.”

“Can I bring Sam?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the smirk stealing across his face. He and Sam had the most bitter, biting but somehow still _friendly_ rivalry that Bucky had ever enjoyed. They did nothing but needle each other for hours, and while it should have been annoying, somehow Steve seemed to find it both endearing and amusing, and often went out of his way to put the two of them together and watch the fireworks. 

“Sure, he can clean the litter boxes, he’ll be good at that.”

Steve snorted, and Bucky could just about picture the way he was rolling his eyes. “Yeah Buck, we can come help out.” Bucky could hear Sam, muffled in the background, asking what he was being volunteered for _now_ , Rogers. “When?”

“When’re you free?”

And that was how Bucky ended up turning up at CATastrophe on Saturday morning at some god-awful hour. Steve and Sam had gone for their too-early morning run and then showed up at Bucky’s place with a cup of coffee and matching wide grins, both of them dressed in casual shorts and hoodies. Bucky had grumbled as he let them in, grumbled as he shuffled through getting dressed, and grumbled as he locked up his apartment behind them, Steve holding his coffee and a bagel stuffed between his teeth.

Now, though, he was biting back a smile that would be far too wide for the circumstances, especially with Sam already giving him sly, sideways looks, and walking along the sidewalk at a faster pace than usual. 

It took Clint a few minutes to make it to the door once Bucky knocked, and he looked bone-tired, draped in low-riding pajama pants and a worn out purple t-shirt, his hair sticking up at all angles. He looked a bit like he hadn’t slept at all, and Bucky hadn’t realized he’d been spending _all_ his nights at the shelter. Jesus. 

“Hi,” Bucky said, more hesitant that he’d felt five minutes ago when he was hurrying to the shop. “Sorry, I didn’t- sorry I woke you up. I just uh, I came to help, I mean _we_ , we came to help and-”

“I’m Steve,” Steve said, interrupting Bucky’s embarrassing verbal diarrhea. He held a hand out to shake. “This is Sam. Bucky said you could use a hand.”

Clint took his hand in a kind of shell-shock, looking from Steve, to Bucky, to Sam, and back to Bucky. “Uh, thanks? Come in, I guess?” He stepped back to let them all in and Bucky was weirdly pleased to note that Clint was in fact taller than Steve. Only a smidge, but it was enough. Clint glanced around the shop and then grimaced, scrubbing a hand through his hair and not bothering to hide a yawn. “You guys want coffee?”

“I can-” Bucky started.

“Sure,” Steve said, easy, and Clint led them back towards the office. Inside the bedroll was spread out on the floor, a couple of pillows scattered around, and Clint gave it an embarrassed kick as he made his way to the ancient coffee machine. On the floor nearby, the two baskets of kittens were starting to rustle, making squeaky noises and climbing over each other in a way that Bucky was becoming familiar with. 

“They’re hungry,” he muttered, squatting down to run his fingers lightly over the fur of the loudest one. 

Clint yawned again, mumbling something around it, and then shook his head as the coffee maker gurgled. “Sorry,” he said. “They made it through a whole four hours straight before you got here, it’s gettin’ better.”

Bucky winced. If four hours was _better_ he really didn’t want to think about what had been worse. 

There was more squeaking from the boxes of kittens, and he stayed where he was, still crouched down and offering soothing pets. One of the kittens got a finger in its mouth and then positively yelled at Bucky in disgruntlement when it didn’t provide any sustenance. He looked up to ask Clint if he needed to get started on making bottles - not that he had any idea how to do that - only to find Clint grinning at him crookedly. Bucky flushed and ducked his head, choosing to watch the kittens climb all over each other rather than the soft look of fondness on Clint’s face. 

That was for the animals, and not for him, Bucky reminded himself. 

Steve cleared his throat, and Bucky saw Clint’s legs jerk out of the corner of his eye. “Lemme go get bottles started while the coffee goes,” he mumbled, and then he was gone, out of the little office and presumably to the small kitchenette in the back of the shop. 

The silence was a little awkward for a second, and then Sam said, “Damn, that boy’s got it bad,” with a low whistle that made Steve snort with laughter and Bucky glare at him. Sam held his hands up in surrender but Bucky wasn’t really mollified. 

“If you’re just going to make fun of me you can fuck off,” Bucky said, pushing down the slight throb of hurt in his chest and focusing on the anger instead. 

“What? No,” Sam said. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean _you_.” He paused, wide-eyed, then gave Bucky a look like he was re-evaluating a few things. 

Before Bucky could really get into it though, Clint was back with the usual assortment of bottles, and the coffee maker was gurgling like it was in its death throes, the last of the brew sputtering out into the pot. Clint managed to dig up mugs for everyone and even remembered to leave Bucky’s coffee black before settling against the wall next to Bucky. He immediately started bundling up the first kitten burrito and propping it in Bucky’s lap before taking one for himself and getting it settled so he could sip his coffee and feed the kitten at the same time. 

Steve and Sam hovered awkwardly at the door, and the shuffling of their sneakers caught Clint’s attention. 

“Shit,” he said, putting the coffee down. “Sorry- I. Well, I’d say I’m usually better at this but that would be a lie, but I forgot-”

“What can we do?” Steve asked, smothering a grin as he looked down at Clint and Bucky. 

Clint looked perplexed and Bucky rolled his eyes. “There’s a locker in the animal room - you can’t miss the room or the locker - it’s got food in it. All the bowls need filling up, you’ll be able to see which animals are where, and the bowls are on mats that say what kind of food goes in them. Start there, and we should be done by then.”

Steve popped off a breezy salute and Sam followed him out the door, still eyeballing Bucky with that weird, curious gaze. After a minute, Bucky could hear the sound of scrabbling paws and a menagerie of animals begging for their breakfast, and he was finally able to relax a little, leaning more of his weight against the wall. Clint took another deep sip of coffee and Bucky watched enviously. His only hand was occupied, which meant his own coffee would have to be drunk between kittens. 

Clint must have caught Bucky staring because he turned his head and caught Bucky’s eye. “Is there something on my face?” he asked, then lifted his arm so that his shirt sleeve was in wiping range and scrubbed his face along his bicep. 

Bucky laughed. “No, I was just coveting your coffee.”

“What? Oh!” Clint sat his own mug down, already half-empty, and gave Bucky’s a contemplative look. “Do you want a bendy straw?”

Bucky snorted out a laugh.

**

By the time Steve and Sam wandered back in, both already covered in animal hair and looking well-pleased with themselves, Clint and Bucky were about 75% done feeding kittens. Only a few more yelling babies left to feed, then the clean up to do and they’d be able to get up and help out as well. Bucky was looking down at the kitten in his lap when they stomped back in, disturbing everyone. It was a little orange one, with bright green eyes and a nub where his tail should’ve been. Bucky’d asked Clint what happened to him, but Clint had just shrugged and said sometimes they were born like that. He was perfectly fine, just missing his tail, Clint had said, like it had been no big deal. Something about the casual acceptance had wormed its way into Bucky’s heart. The kitten, too, especially once Clint had given him an idiotic name - he was calling this one Bobby - and mentioned he’d be harder to adopt out. 

Bucky could relate.

“What’s next?” Steve asked, interrupting Bucky’s weird train of thought and looking positively _delighted_. 

When Clint didn’t answer immediately, Bucky risked elbowing him a little. “Put him to work, Clint,” Bucky advised. “He’ll get into trouble if left to his own devices.”

Steve’s faux-offended ‘hey!’ was nearly drowned out by Sam’s snort of amusement. 

Clint looked dubious, but he was also desperate, or as close to desperate as Bucky had ever seen him. “There’s a dog park a couple blocks over-”

Steve, if possible, looked even _more_ excited. Bucky knew he wanted a dog very badly, and Sam had talked him down a half-dozen times. They both had high-stress, demanding jobs, ones that didn’t necessarily pair well with pet ownership, and certainly not with puppy training; but Steve had wanted a dog since he and Bucky were kids, back when he was too small and asthmatic and allergic to get one. Now that he’d mostly grown out of his allergies and his asthma, he’d become even more determined to get one. 

Bucky, unfortunately, had not considered this fact when he’d asked Steve to help out around CATastrophe.

Sam was now giving Bucky the stink-eye, and it made Clint falter.

“Just ask him,” Bucky muttered to Clint, because Steve wasn’t going to let that one go anyway.

Clint sighed. “Lucky and the pups need more exercise than just a bathroom outing, so you’d be doing me a solid if you could take them to the park and let them run around a bit. Maybe like an hour, if that’s not too long?”

Sam looked heavenwards, and Bucky could see the exact moment that he accepted his fate. In no world was Steve Rogers going to take a golden retriever and three puppies to the dog park for an hour and not fall irrevocably in love with at least one of them. He was practically _vibrating_ in place. 

“We can do that,” Steve assured Clint, trying and failing to sound completely nonplussed. “What-”

“There are leashes by the door,” Bucky interrupted. “You just walk the dogs over, let them play, and walk them back. No smuggling puppies home under your shirt, Rogers.”

“Yes, Ma,” Steve said, like a sarcastic asshole.

Bucky would’ve flipped him off, if he’d had a free hand to do it. Sam grinned at him like he knew what Bucky was thinking, then nudged Steve back out of the room. Bucky heard the jingle of the leashes and then the excited, squeaking barks of the puppies. He could hear Steve murmuring lowly to them as he snapped metal catches, and then the jingle of the front door opening and shutting. 

Finally, silence.

Bucky heaved out a sigh, leaning his head on the ledge behind him with his eyes closed. 

“Your friends are nice,” Clint said, after a few minutes. 

Bucky snorted a laugh and cracked one eye open to look at Clint. “My friends are assholes,” he informed Clint very seriously. “But they mean well or whatever.”

“It’s nice they care,” was all Clint said, staring down at the kitten in his lap, who was very close to being finished with its bottle and looked half-asleep already. 

“They care too much. It’s kind of a pain. But it was nice to capitalize on to get a little extra help around here.”

Clint’s head jerked up, giving Bucky an inscrutable look. “You didn’t have to-”

“Steve’s been wanting to meet you,” Bucky interrupted. “I guess I talk about this place too much, he was just gonna make an excuse to come by if I didn’t give him one. At least this way the litter boxes get scooped.”

If anything, Bucky’s explanation just made Clint’s face twist up even more, a hint of confusion amongst the whatever-else that Bucky couldn’t quite decipher. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and closed it again, turning back to the kittens. They only had two left to feed, and then it was going to be cleaning, and then whatever else had lapsed around here while Clint had been busy with so many babies. Clint swapped Bucky’s kitten out for a different one, burritoed up and ready to go, and they made quick work of it, helped along by the fact that the last kittens to be fed were always the hungriest and therefore the fastest eaters. 

By the time Steve and Sam came back - completely covered in mud and grass - Clint and Bucky had the kittens bundled up and sleeping quietly in their baskets, the play room swept and spot-mopped, and Bandit’s cage cleaned as well. Clint was trying to sort out some of the mess his office had become, sheepishly rolling up his bedroll before tackling the paperwork on the desk. 

Steve cornered him while Clint was showing Sam where the litter box supplies were. 

Bucky should have seen it coming, he really should have. All the time he’d spent talking about Clint, and Steve had spent egging him on, Bucky should’ve realized that bringing him here would be opening a whole can of worms he wasn’t ready for, but he’d been focused on helping Clint and not on himself for once and it hadn’t occurred to him. 

“Bucky,” Steve said, low but not quite a whisper, looking almost constipated. Bucky knew that look. It was a look that said Steve was going to say something he thought Bucky should hear, whether Bucky liked it or not. 

Bucky had been on the receiving end of that look too many times since he came back from overseas not to recognize it now. He groaned. 

“What, _Steven_?” he hissed, glaring as he tried to sort out paperwork for Clint without invading his privacy. Bills here, adoption paperwork there, vet paperwork _there_. The place was a mess, it was a wonder Clint got anything done at all, honestly. 

“I just-” Steve gave a kind of helpless shrug. “Why won’t you let this be a thing?”

Bucky froze, his hand between stacks of paper as he stared at them sightlessly. He gave himself a shake and put the bill from the vet - and _Jesus_ how much did an ear infection cost? - in the pile with the other notices. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” he said, like his stomach wasn’t tied up in knots and he didn’t know exactly what Steve meant.

“The guy is obviously gone on you and you-”

“He’s obviously what?” This was not what Bucky was expecting. Bucky was expecting Steve to try and convince him to ask Clint out, sure, but he wasn’t expecting Steve to try and convince him that Clint actually _liked_ him. Clint didn’t _like_ him. Clint was just a guy, a friend, someone that Bucky helped out sometimes. Someone that Bucky obviously liked way more than he should, but that’s all this was, a hopeless crush.

That was all this was. 

And it wasn’t fair of Steve to try and make Bucky think differently. He ignored the fluttering feeling in his chest that felt uncomfortably like hope, and glared at Steve over the desk.

“He likes you, you dummy, and you’re just….” He trailed off and made a formless gesture with his hands. Bucky didn’t know if the movement was _meant_ to convey just how useless and lackluster Bucky was, but that was how it felt. Like Steve was flapping at him for not doing whatever it was Steve thought he should be doing. 

Bucky had thought he was doing pretty good, actually, stepping out of his comfort zone and making a friend and now Steve was here pushing like that wasn’t enough, wasn’t _good_ enough-

“I’m _what_?” Bucky snarled, working on not crushing the papers in his hand the same way the fluttering hopeful sensation in his chest was being crushed with anger and anxiety. 

“You’re just… happy,” Steve said, only he sounded miserable about it. “I’ve never seen-” he paused and then rephrased, “I haven’t seen you look so comfortable in a long time. I don’t know why you won’t let yourself have this.”

“Let myself have what? There’s nothing to have.” Bucky was trying to tamp down all the feelings that were welling up. Frustration at Steve for picking here and now to have this conversation, anger that here was another thing that he wanted and couldn’t have, anxiety that this was always going to be his life now. Wanting things he couldn’t have. Even worse was the idea that he wouldn’t be able to want things, which was how he’d felt for months after his return. He’d been kind of enjoying this quiet little crush, something he hadn’t been sure he’d get back after everything that had happened to him, the ability to want someone. The small excitement of getting to see them and spend time with them and just… enjoy a person for the sake of it. 

It was a harmless crush and now Steve was being Steve about it.

Clint was Bucky’s friend, _just_ his friend, and he wasn’t willing to risk that on the off chance that Steve might be right. Steve had always been shit at relationships anyway, Bucky’d watched him dance around both Peggy _and_ Sam before they’d both had to take the situation into their own hands. What did he know about it anyway?

Steve blew out an expressive breath, clearly extremely done with Bucky’s shit. “Look, you obviously like the guy and he likes you and I think you should go for it - Sam and I can keep an eye around here and you guys could go grab lunch, maybe. Do something that isn’t wiping kitten ass or sweeping up animal hair. You’re-”

“I’m _what_?” Bucky interrupted again, but this time the anger was all mixed up with resignation and disappointment. He was shaking, just enough that the papers in his hand were rattling faintly. He hated that he even had to say any of this out loud, but Steve was so obviously not going to let it go. “I’m what, Steve? I’m a mess, is what I am. I only got one arm, in case you haven’t noticed, and I don’t have a job, and I can barely make it to the bodega and back for milk, why would _anyone_ want to deal with this? And that’s not even counting the PTSD.” He tried to focus on his breathing, tried to remember all the things that Doc had told him to do when he could feel the anger bubbling up inside and threatening to spill out. 

He took another deep breath.

And another.

And then it all spilled out anyway. 

“It doesn’t matter at all how I feel - not one bit. And you could keep your big nose out of it, you knew- this is why I didn’t introduce you in the first place!” He oh-so-carefully put down the papers in his hand before he crushed them and pressed his fingers into his eyes to hold back the prickling sensation behind his eyelids. His hand was still shaking, and his breath felt tight in his chest. “You’re supposed to be _helping,_ not pushing me to do stuff I’m not ready for and Clint doesn’t even want. You and Sam think you know everything, but why would _anyone_ wanna go out with me?”

“Bucky, I-”

“No, you listen to me. I’m a disaster. I only met Clint because I had a freak out over a backfiring car! You probably couldn’t pay him money to go on a date with me and I’m not going to embarrass the hell out of myself askin’. He’s a friend and I don’t got so many of those that I can afford to lose one because I asked for more than I’ve already got and I’m lucky to have.”

Steve’s face took on a stubborn look that Bucky _also_ knew all too well, the kind of look that had got him into more trouble than Bucky could reliably recall. “Shut up,” Steve said. “You’re amazing. Anyone would be lucky to have _you_ , but you’ve been doin’ so much better since you started doin’ all this. You’re changing things up and taking risks that you never took before - and maybe you regret asking me to come help but I’m glad I got to meet Clint and see you two together and just because you’re too goddamn scared to grab onto something good-”

“Fuck you,” Bucky said, low, hurt curling up in his gut. “Fuck you, I didn’t deserve that.”

Steve’s eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything someone cleared their throat awkwardly from the door. 

It was Clint. Because of course it was Clint. Who else would it be in Bucky’s shitty, fucked-up life other than Clint? God only knew how much he’d heard of their whisper-shouted argument. 

“I don’t think you’re a disaster,” Clint said hesitantly, apropos of nothing, except for how it told Bucky everything. “I think-” He cleared his throat again, and swallowed roughly. He was still in pajamas, rumpled and tired-looking and still somehow the best thing Bucky had ever seen. “I think you’re amazing, I don’t…” He trailed off as he looked between Bucky and Steve, then seemed to square his shoulders. “If anyone is a disaster here, it’s clearly me, I mean I sleep in my office because I can’t afford rent on this place and an apartment.”

And then he flushed red from his face to his throat, like his words were catching up with him after they were already out of his mouth and now Clint was embarrassed and _Bucky_ was embarrassed and it was all Steve’s big, dumb fault, with his big, dumb mouth. 

The last thing Bucky wanted was Clint’s pity, however well-meaning it might be.

“I gotta go,” Bucky bit out, dragging his hand through his hair roughly and edging around Steve towards the doorway. Clint stepped back, automatically giving Bucky the space he never asked for but Clint always seemed to know he needed, and Bucky could feel hot, angry tears building behind his eyes as he ducked his head and headed for the front door.

Behind him, Steve sighed and Clint made a noise like he was going to say something before he bit it back.

The one good fucking thing he’d managed for himself without a babysitter and now it was all fucked up. 

Great.

**

It took Bucky three days and a full-on ugly cry in Doc’s office for him to be able to admit that he’d overreacted. Sure, Steve shouldn’t have pushed him at that exact place and that exact time - that was a violation of Bucky’s boundaries and he needed to tell Steve that - but Bucky’s immediate defensive reaction and lashing out and the underlying self-esteem issues? Those were all on Bucky. 

As was the fact that he’d been ignoring Steve’s calls since he left the shop, and now it was Thursday. 

Bucky hadn’t gone anywhere that wasn’t an assigned appointment since Saturday. He’d barely made PT. He’d ordered his groceries delivered. He couldn’t remember if he’d showered. 

Doc’s voice was quietly chiding him in his head, and Bucky sighed. 

His phone chirped for approximately the four hundred and twenty-seventh time. He wasn’t speaking to Steve, and he and Clint didn’t really chat on the phone or outside CATastrophe at all, so Bucky almost didn’t bother picking it up. Unfortunately, Doc’s voice in his head turned disappointed and Bucky flipped the phone over with a sigh. 

The message was from Sam, this time, which was a surprise. He usually left Bucky and Steve to work their snits out on their own because he ‘didn’t have time to fix any broken white boys that could fix themselves.’ Bucky appreciated that about Sam. He did volunteer work at the VA, but it wasn’t his job to therapize Bucky, and Bucky wouldn’t have liked it if he’d tried. 

_Cook-out on the roof tonight. Wash your ass and show up._

Bucky sighed and let his head fall back, sinking deeper into the pillow nest he’d created for himself. He was wearing the same pajamas he’d had on for two days, and he didn’t need a smell check to know he needed to shower. He also didn’t want to go to a cook-out, but he owed someone an apology. He wasn’t sure who. Besides Clint, obviously, but Bucky wasn’t even remotely ready to consider that. He maybe owed Steve an apology for flipping out, but Steve definitely owed him an apology for what happened and…

Hell, he and Steve needed to _talk_. Fuck. 

Heaving another sigh, Bucky dragged himself out of bed and into his bathroom. At least washing his hair would make him feel better about himself, it was always nice to be clean once he’d forced himself into it. 

When he got out of the shower he changed into jeans and a t-shirt. It made him uncomfortably aware of his missing arm, but sometimes he needed a little discomfort to push him forward. _Being counterphobic_ , Doc called it. And maybe Steve needed a reminder that Bucky wasn’t the same as he had been, maybe that would be the thing that got through his thick skull this time. He changed his sheets while he was at it, because fuck only knew when the last time he’d done that was, and it would be nice to come home an emotional wreck and have nice, clean sheets to crawl between. 

He managed the walk to Steve’s building without incident, held the door open for a tottering old lady that looked like she’d rather hit him with her cane than accept his help, and took the stairs instead of the elevator because that counted as exercise right? By the time he hit the roof, the sun was just starting to set, painting the skyline shades of orange and pink and the roof itself a golden hue.

It was the usual group, with Sam manning the grill because Steve couldn’t be trusted with it, Dum-Dum and Jim heckling him. Gabe and Dernier were arguing about god-knew-what over the giant Jenga set. It would be nice to be with the group, guys he and Steve had served with, who weren’t gonna judge Bucky if he couldn’t cope and ducked out early. Falsworth might even be up for a game of darts, once Bucky got a couple of beers in him. 

Speaking of beers, _there_ was Steve - digging through the cooler. Bucky was about to head over and claim one for himself when he recognized the guy standing next to him, waiting patiently for whatever trash microbrew Steve was peddling this week. It was Clint. 

Steve was handing a beer to Clint. 

Christ, Bucky was going to kill Steve _and_ Sam. He was going to throw them off the roof, it would be justified homicide. No court in the land would convict him, he had PTSD, he’d claim temporary insanity, he’d-

“Barnes!” 

Bucky’s head jerked up, tearing his eyes away from the way Clint’s entire body flexed as he reached for the bottle Steve was handing him, to where Gabe had yelled his name. 

“Settle an argument for us!” Gabe continued, and Bucky snorted.

“Oh hell no, I’m not getting involved in you two’s fuckery.” He made his way over to the unstable-looking Jenga tower, eyeing it to see how he could topple it without actually touching it. 

And maybe it was rude to walk away from Steve and Clint, but Bucky hadn’t invited Clint and Steve was the one meddling, so he didn’t feel too badly about it. He’d come out to apologize for being a hermit and got ambushed instead. So he was gonna take a few minutes to listen to one of Gabe and Dernier’s ridiculous arguments - half of which were always in French anyway - and try to relax. He could do this. He’d just got here, he couldn’t stomp off in a huff. He was an adult, dammit. 

“It’s a very simple argument,” Gabe wheedled, as he worked one of the Jenga blocks out of the tower and very carefully applied it to the top of the increasingly precarious stack. “James here-”

“It’s Jacques, you son-of-a-bitch.”

“It’s James. It’s all James. Everyone in the goddamn unit is James except for me an’ Dum-Dum.”

“And me!” Steve shouted, and Bucky flinched. 

“Steve doesn’t count, he’s practically in Barnes’ pocket,” Gabe added, as though Steve hadn’t spoken. It was well-worn territory anyway, once Steve had been put in charge of the unit after it was already well-established and Bucky had been his friend from back home. Captain Rogers had never known a single moment’s peace amongst the Howling Commandos, least of all from Gabe who had been the ranking officer before he’d turned up. 

“He’s Sam’s pocket’s problem now,” Bucky said, aiming for lightheartedness. He didn’t quite succeed but Gabe barrelled on anyway so it didn’t matter. 

Gabe waved his hand vaguely. “If an astronaut and a caveman had a fight, who would win?”

Bucky blinked. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “How long have you been arguing about this?”

“Ehhhh….”

“The whole time!” Dum-Dum helpfully interjected, pausing in heckling Sam in order to heckle Gabe and Dernier. 

“This is the most ridiculous…” Bucky paused, as a thought occurred to him. “Do they have weapons?”

“No!” Gabe and Dernier said together, just about too vicious for the subject matter, and Bucky took a half-step back at the vehemence. 

“Well then obviously the caveman wins, he’s gotta be stronger right?”

Dernier shot him a betrayed look, muttering _Vous êtes dans la caricature_ under his breath, and Bucky didn’t know what it meant exactly but Gabe’s snort let him know it wasn’t flattering. Gabe punched the air in delight that he’d apparently won their argument, and the Jenga tower fell with a resounding crash. 

“You are all insufferable,” Dernier informed them as a ragged cheer went up from the entire group, and he strode off toward the cooler yelling at Steve about his piss-water. 

Sam pulled out a battered metal kettle and sat it to the side of the grill, which made Falsworth break off from ribbing Dernier with an outraged noise. 

“Not this shite again,” he groaned, his faintly British pronunciation more prominent than usual. They’d be pouring him into bed with a paper Victoria Cross before the end of the night, Bucky figured. 

Bucky huffed out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. These were his friends, these idiot guys, and he’d missed them. 

“Who’s the new guy?” Gabe asked, smirking.

He took it back, Bucky hated these idiots. He blew out a breath. “Just a friend.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “We cannot wish for that we know not.”

“Don’t quote Voltaire at me, you philosophical jackass, you haven’t had a serious relationship since that girl in Kabul that lasted two weeks.”

“Okay, you look at him like a starving man looks at steak, is that better?” Gabe teased. “Steve said we had to be nice to him, and he laughed at Dum-Dum’s dick jokes. I think you _liiiiiike_ him.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky muttered. “Steve needs to shut his stupid face hole.”

“He let Morita talk about the horses back at his family’s place for a solid twenty minutes, and then told him about the time he shot arrows from a horse’s back in a circus. He’s clearly hopeless, and you do have a type.”

“I hate you,” Bucky informed him, and then shoved his hand into his back pocket and wished he had a beer. Of course Steve had told everyone to be nice, like these assholes had a nice bone in their body and like that wasn’t gonna mean that they were all absolutely on their worst possible behavior. Morita and his horses, Jesus. 

Clint was caught up in conversation with Dum-Dum now, laughing occasionally at whatever stupid shit Dum-Dum was saying - it was probably about Bucky, probably about the time that Bucky’d got shit-faced and waxed poetic about how they were all specks in the universe and made of stardust because Dum-Dum liked to think that shit made Bucky sound romantic instead of deranged - and laughing, though Bucky caught him throwing a glances at him every once in a while. 

“I should probably go rescue him,” Bucky muttered. Clint hadn’t done anything to deserve being immersed in this clusterfuck, and while he could maintain he was still a bit mad at Steve - and now Sam - he couldn’t leave Clint to the mercy of these assholes. 

“You should probably get a beer before you do,” Gabe said. “You’re gonna need it. Dum-Dum already told the story about the time he wandered in on Steve and Peggy.”

Bucky groaned. “Fine, fine. Jesus, this group.”

“You love us,” Gabe assured him, then began reassembling the fallen Jenga tower. “Steve! Come and play a game with me!”

“Fuck off,” Steve said, laughing. “I’m busy.”

Busy hovering over Sam’s shoulder maybe, draped against his back like it wasn’t hot as balls outside and Sam wasn’t standing over a searing hot grill. Sam shrugged him off and nudged him in Gabe’s general direction, and Steve ambled that way. He clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he went, stopping them in the middle of the open space of the roof.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, quiet enough that the others probably couldn’t hear them. 

“For cornering me at CATastrophe or springing an ambush on me?” Bucky said waspishly, but he rolled his eyes to soften the blow. 

“I just want you to be happy,” Steve said, earnest and annoying. 

Bucky shrugged him off, but he followed it up with a quick, brusque hug. “I’m workin’ on it,” he said, as much of a concession as he could manage. “You gotta lighten up though. I got therapists for that.”

Steve ducked his head, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly. “That’s what Sam said.”

“Before or after you got Clint here?”

“After,” Steve admitted. “I didn’t tell him I was gonna invite him.”

Bucky blew out an explosive breath. “Jesus, Rogers. Have some damn chill.”

“I’m workin’ on it,” Steve parroted, and then shot Bucky a conspiratorial grin that Bucky couldn’t help but return. Fuck, it didn’t matter what this dumb punk did, he was always gonna be Bucky’s best friend and he was always gonna be nothing but trouble with a ‘who me’ smile. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he bumped Steve’s shoulder with his own, letting the last of the tension drain out of their friendship. 

“Now go get your man,” Steve added, grinning like a shark.

“I fucking hate you.” Bucky paused, then added “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have run off like that, or ignored your calls.”

Steve’s smile softened a little at that, but he didn’t respond except to give Bucky a shove in Clint’s general direction as he ambled off to where Gabe was still rebuilding giant Jenga. 

Bucky made a pit stop at the cooler because after this week he really deserved a beer, and then he made his way over to where Clint, Dum-Dum, and Morita were involved in some kind of heated debate. He could see Clint looking outraged and Dum-Dum laugh as he slumped against Morita, and Bucky had a brief jolt of near-panic because inserting himself into social situations just wasn’t his forte anymore. He wasn’t that smooth, easy guy that just seamlessly fit in everywhere.

Clint caught his eye and tipped his head with a small smile and a wink, so Bucky pushed past the anxiety, because there was nowhere else at this stupid party he’d rather be than with Clint.

“If this is about astronauts and cavemen,” Bucky interrupted, “then I’m goin’ home.”

“This guy,” Dum-Dum slapped Clint on the back hard enough that he stumbled under it, but managed to keep his beer from spilling, “swears he was in a circus, but I think he’s lyin’. No one _really_ runs away to join the circus when they’re a kid, that’s just a story.”

“Oh it’s true.” Bucky grinned and took a swig of his beer. Fucking Brooklyn hipster IPA shit, Bucky hated Steve. “I’ve seen _pictures_.”

Clint groaned. “I regret ever showing you those.”

“Purple spandex and sequins,” Bucky added, still smiling.

“Were you an acrobat?” Morita asked, face crinked in confusion. 

“Archery,” Clint told him, already over the fact that all of Bucky’s friends now knew he’d performed in skin-tight, eye-searing colors. “The Amazing Hawkeye. I can shoot a quarter mid-air at 100 paces.”

“A shooter!” Dum-Dum said, shooting a completely unsubtle wink at Bucky. “Sarge here was our sniper. You got some records don’t you, Barnes?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. He did hold a couple of sniping records, but half the shit he’d done was classified and the bits that weren’t classified weren’t anything he wanted to talk about. Really nothing about his Army time was anything he wanted to talk about, except maybe the friends he’d made along the way. 

Clint was looking at him speculatively though, and Bucky bumped him with his shoulder. “I can’t shoot a bow with only one arm, get that look off your face.” He paused. “Probably can’t shoot a rifle, either,” he added, more contemplative than upset about it. Pulling a trigger only required one hand but steadying the gun… maybe if he had it on a stand? Bucky shook his head, letting the thought drift away. He wasn’t in any hurry to pick up a gun, if he ever wanted to again, but he definitely wasn’t going to be learning the bow any time soon. Clint deflated at the reminder though, in a comically disappointed way that made Bucky feel amused rather than defensive. 

It was just that Clint loved shooting his bow and wanted to share that with literally everyone, nothing to do with Bucky at all. 

“What about a crossbow?” Clint asked, perking up. 

Possibly it was something to do with Bucky. 

“We’ll see,” Bucky deflected. “Let’s make it through eating with these assholes first.” He gave Dum-Dum a stern look, one he’d perfected over the years. Dum-Dum just grinned at him, unrepentant. 

“Darts only take one hand.” He was goading Bucky, and Bucky knew it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to fall for it, unfortunately. 

“None of you jerks will play with me any more,” Bucky complained, unsure whether he wanted to get out of it or not. He’d thought about it before, when he’d first arrived and hadn’t known Clint would be there, but he wasn’t so sure it was something he wanted to do in front of Clint, just in case he accidentally humiliated himself. “I took the last of Falsworth’s money last time and he won’t even look at a dart board anymore unless I get him drunk first, and then he complains I have an unfair advantage!” Bucky gestured at his empty left sleeve, as though that was all the explanation he should have to offer. 

“I’ll play,” Clint offered, and then gave Bucky a sideways smirk that promised all sorts of mischief. “I’ll even tie one hand behind my back, how’s that?”

Bucky sputtered but Morita and Dum-Dum laughed, and Bucky felt some of the anxiety that had started to curdle in his chest recede under the camaraderie and lack of judgment. It felt more like gentle ribbing than genuine criticism, and somehow the relief of being able to joke about his arm for once was greater than the defensiveness he usually felt. Something about being around Clint just made Bucky feel that way, relaxed and accepted and at ease. 

In the end Clint didn’t play with one hand tied behind his back, but he did do one match blindfolded with a bandana Sam produced from somewhere, and he still managed to wipe the floor with Bucky, whipping darts one after the other and hitting bullseyes every time. Bucky feigned disgruntlement but it was so impressive he couldn’t really be mad about it, and the back-slapping and beer offers the guys gave Clint when he won were enough to make him red-faced and shy in a way Bucky had never seen before, and that he found inexplicably appealing. 

They were nearly done gorging themselves on burgers and beans and potato salad, huddled in a corner on a couple of lawn chairs ignoring the others as they argued about the rules of cornhole, when Clint’s phone beeped at him, loud and insistent. He pulled it out of his pocket with a frown of confusion that cleared up after a few seconds when he silenced it. 

“Gotta go,” he said, once he’d swallowed the too-large bite in his mouth. 

Bucky felt his face twist as his stomach sank. He hadn’t spent any time with Clint this week and had missed it, and now it seemed like he was leaving far too early, the sun barely set.

“Aw Buck,” he said, catching the fleeting expression before Bucky could wrestle off his face. “I got kittens to feed, remember?” He gave Bucky a gentle nudge with his knee, a soft smile on his face taking some of the sting out of it. 

Bucky’d forgot. Not that there were kittens but that they had to be fed around the clock, and immediately felt guilty for all the time he’d spent away. Clint was looking much more rested than when Bucky had seen him last, but he still had a lot of responsibilities and Bucky had bailed after promising to help.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky managed. “I said I’d help and then-“

“Naw,” Clint waved him off. “I get it. Who wants to deal with my disaster? You were a champ for sticking it out as long as you did. It’s not like I’m even paying you. Sam and Steve were cool, they helped out Sunday too and Sam promised to get me some paperwork to apply for a grant for ‘offering employment opportunity to disabled vets'.’” He even did the finger quotes with the hand that wasn’t holding a burger, rolling his eyes. “But no one stays forever. It’s okay.” His expression was folded into pained understanding that made Bucky’s heart hurt.

“No,” Bucky said. “It’s not that. I’m- I shouldn’t’a run out like I did. Steve got me all riled up and I didn’t- I’m sorry. But I do want to help. I want to be there, I-“ _I like you_ , Bucky thought but didn’t say. “I like it,” he managed lamely. “It helps me too.”

It was a little hard to admit, but Bucky couldn’t ignore the fact that he _had_ made a lot of progress in the weeks he’d been helping Clint at CATastrophe, and that he was more relaxed tonight, even surrounded by his closest friends, than he’d been since before he’d lost his arm. It was Clint that did that, probably, more than feeding kittens and sweeping floors and scooping litter, but whatever it was, Bucky didn’t want to lose it or let it go. And he very nearly had, which was something he was just now realizing. He’d walked out on something that was special and important to him, and he regretted it, and he was hoping that wasn’t really over. Even if all he and Clint ever were was good friends, Bucky would count himself lucky, whatever Steve had to say about it. 

Clint cocked his head, looking at Bucky like he’d said something profound. “Well,” he finally ventured, “you’re always welcome to come by. You know that. I think Beans misses you.”

“Who’s Beans?” Bucky asked, bewildered. 

“Your little orange buddy,” Clint said, grinning.

“That’s a fucking awful name. That’s even worse than Bobby.” 

“Come up with a better one then,” Clint challenged, smile widening until his eyes crinkled. Clint laughed at Bucky’s wrinkled up nose, and whatever anxiety Bucky had been about to feel dissipated into the warmth and ease of their friendship. 

How could Bucky have walked away from that?

“Can I come with you?” he asked, impulsively. Around them the guys were getting steadily drunker, and it wasn’t like Bucky wasn’t known to duck out early most times anyway. The surprise on Clint’s face was a little unflattering, but Bucky took a deep breath and forged on. “I miss the kittens and… and I miss you. And I think we should talk. About what happened.”

“Of course you can come with me,” Clint said, “but you don’t owe me anything, including an explanation.”

Bucky shrugged and ducked his head to scoop up what was left on his plate. Maybe Clint didn’t think so, but Bucky felt like he did need to explain. And maybe try a little honesty, because Clint had overheard enough of Bucky’s disagreement with Steve to know _something_ was up. Clint was still here, had still shown up to Steve’s invitation despite that, was still hanging out with Bucky and treating him the same as he always did, so maybe Steve wasn’t right but maybe he wasn’t wrong either.

And Bucky felt a little like taking a risk for the first time in a long time. 

Bucky and Clint slipped away quietly, avoiding a round of goodbyes that Bucky figured would only be either awkward or suggestive, and he was proven right almost immediately when Dum-Dum wolf-whistled at them on their way out. Bucky ducked his head, blushing, but Clint just grinned at him, moving to throw an arm over Bucky’s shoulder and then changing directions at the last second to give his bicep a squeeze instead before letting his hand drop. Bucky appreciated the consideration but at the same time he was kind of…

Disappointed?

Disappointed was a good word for the little ball of emotions in his gut that had thought he was going to get tugged in close and held, and got a bro-squeeze instead, and Bucky hadn’t really realized he wanted that until just now. He’d known he _liked_ Clint, and there’d been some… half-formed fantasies of leaning in for a kiss or maybe even a bit more than that, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he really _wanted_ that.

It had been a long time since Bucky had wanted anything like that. 

That casual touch, the easy physical closeness to go with the easy emotional closeness they already had; sometimes it seemed like it was just at the edge of Bucky’s grasp if only he wasn’t afraid to reach for it. 

When they exited the building, making an unspoken decision to walk to CATastrophe, Bucky took a deep breath and then held out his hand, palm up, between them. It took Clint a few seconds to notice, in fact he didn’t seem to register the gesture until his arm brushed against Bucky’s hand as he walked, and the look he gave Bucky was a little surprised and a little wondering, and then he reached out, easy as anything, and threaded their fingers together. 

Neither one of them said a word, but Bucky could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It wasn’t anxiety, even though his only hand was occupied. Instead it felt a lot more like anticipation, like the flutter of nerves he could barely remember from first dates years ago, back when he wasn’t damaged and uncomfortable in his own skin. It was the good kind of nervous. 

Bucky squeezed Clint’s fingers between his own, and Clint squeezed back. 

They didn’t speak for the entire walk, although Clint screwed his face up a couple of times and opened his mouth, only to shut it again. Bucky was content to let the casual contact and uncomplicated ease between them continue for as long as he could have it. They’d have to talk eventually, and Bucky would have to actually vocalize the churning emotions in his chest, but until then he was happy to have Clint’s slightly-sweaty palm pressed against his own. 

It was the longest time Bucky had voluntarily let _anyone_ touch him since Afghanistan. Even when he was touch-starved and comfort-seeking, the most he’d been able to tolerate had been Steve’s hand on his shoulder or a brief, tight hug to help ground him. He’d forgot just how nice it was to hold someone’s hand.

“C’mon pal, you can’t manage a simple door without both hands?” Bucky teased gently, as Clint tried to turn the key in the deadbolt and move fast enough to grab the knob and twist before the key snapped back, evidently just as reluctant as Bucky was to let go. “Even I can open a door.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but Bucky had to disentangle their fingers himself, because it was obvious Clint wasn’t going to. He looked sheepish as he twisted the knob and key and wrenched the door open, the bottom edge sticking a bit from age and water damage. He flicked on a dim overhead light as Bucky followed him in, and already he could hear the shuffling of animals. 

They detoured to the office, which was now completely rearranged with a large cabinet on one wall and the desk shoved to the side, to grab a stack of clean, fluffy towels, and then Clint took them to the animal room. Lucky gave a happy woof and trotted up to nudge at Bucky’s hand until Bucky scratched behind his ears, and then he went and sat himself on Clint’s toes for an even more thorough petting. Bucket - whom Clint had never found a permanent home for and Bucky now had a sneaking suspicion that was because of _him_ \- came and wound herself around Bucky’s feet, all long kitten legs and plaintive meows until Bucky crouched down and stroked over her back and scratched under her chin. The kittens were piled up together on a large, fluffy bed, and Bucky helped Clint mash up wet kitten food and kitten replacement milk to give them instead of bottles. 

“Guess I missed the last chance to bottle feed ‘em, huh?” Bucky said, unable to keep the note of sadness out of his voice as the reality of it clenched around his heart.

“It’s alright,” Clint said easily, setting out bowls. “There’ll be more, there always are.” His face kind of pinched up though, and he added, “If you want, I mean. You don’t have to.”

That gave Bucky pause. He didn’t want Clint to feel that uncertain about him, didn’t want Clint to ever wonder if Bucky wanted to be around. It was his own fault, running out like he had. He’d given Clint the impression that he didn’t want to be here, and it couldn’t be further from the truth. He hadn’t been running away from Clint, not really, so much as Steve’s bullheaded interference and his own emotions. 

“Hey,” he said, crouched down on the floor next to Clint as they tried to corral the yelling babies around dishes so that they didn’t end up with their whole bodies in the bowl and covered in food. “I’m real sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Clint said blithely, dragging a particularly enthusiastic kitten back a bit from the bowl. 

“Look, I brought my pushy asshole friends over here-”

“I like your friends.”

“-and they were supposed to help and instead Steve just started a buncha shit with me.”

“Sam put a Murphy bed in my office,” Clint offered. “And Steve walked the dogs. They helped.”

“Yeah but then I ran outta here like an asshole, and I shouldn’t have done that. We’re- I’m- you deserve better than that. You’re my friend and I should do better, I just-”

“Bucky you don’t need to explain, I get it, who would want to get involved in this disaster? I mean it’s halfway to going under all the time, I wouldn’t even have it if it wasn’t for Lucky, I’m-”

Bucky blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m just trying to apologize okay? It’s not you, you didn’t do anything wrong, I’m not… I’m not tired of this or tired of you or judging your life choices or whatever it is you think. I _like_ it here, I like this, I like the animals and feelin’ like I’m doin’ something worthwhile, something that helps and matters and doesn’t hurt anybody and I like _you_ , I-”

“Can I kiss you?” Clint interrupted. 

“What?” Bucky asked, startled, every thought he’d had flying right out of his head. 

“Can I kiss you?” Clint repeated. He looked embarrassed but determined, a flush spreading over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, but he was looking Bucky in the eyes when he said it. He didn’t make any move to come closer or even try to touch Bucky, he just sat patiently on his heels and looked at Bucky like he could see right through him. It should have made Bucky feel uncomfortable, but nothing Clint did ever seemed to make him feel anything except accepted. “You can say no, it’s okay. I respect your boundaries. If you just wanna be friends who hold hands, that’s fine. It just feels kinda like maybe you wanna be more than friends, and I’d really, really like that, and I really want to kiss you.”

Bucky thought about it - really thought about it - for a long moment. He hadn’t kissed anybody in… a long time. A real long time. And part of him wasn’t sure whether he could let anybody be that close to him, make himself that vulnerable. But a bigger part, a much bigger part, the part that knew what Clint’s shoulder felt like pressed up against him in solidarity and comfort and what his fingers felt like twined between Bucky’s, and the way Clint always, always respected Bucky’s need for space but was still able to offer unspoken support - that part of him really wanted to try. 

“Okay,” he said, through a throat that was suddenly dry. He licked his lips involuntarily, and Clint’s eyes darted down to the motion and back up.

“Yeah?” he asked. “You sure?”

Bucky nodded his head jerkily.

Clint leaned forward, catching his weight on one knee and eased into Bucky’s space slowly. 

Instead of anxiety, all Bucky felt was anticipation. They’d spent months building this up from a tiny friendship to something Bucky didn’t think he could stand to lose from his life, and all he felt was filled up with the kind of butterfly nerves that were sweet instead of leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Clint brought his hand up, careful eyes watching Bucky’s every move, and very gently cupped his jaw. Bucky tilted his face into it, and Clint’s lips quirked up just a little into something soft and fond, and then his mouth was on Bucky’s, gentle, chaste pressure. 

Bucky leaned into Clint, bracing himself on one broad shoulder, and Clint’s fingers slid around to the back of his head, not tentative but still somehow careful. Tender. His fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair and his thumb brushed back and forth under Bucky’s ear and then Bucky lost track of those details in favor of the feel of Clint’s mouth against his and the way their lips moved together. 

He could feel the stubble on Clint’s face, rough against his own unshaved chin, and he tilted his head until they were lined up better and he could angle for more kissing, more pressure, and just a little bit of hunger. Bucky’d been expecting awkward, but like everything with Clint so far it was just easy and comfortable, like they’d done it a hundred times. 

Clint made a surprised noise in his throat when Bucky nipped a little at his bottom lip and Bucky grinned into the kiss. He broke away, just a little bit more breathless than something so innocent should have caused. 

“You can kiss me anytime you want,” Bucky said, still grinning. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Clint said, leaning back in, faster this time, more sure of himself, and upsetting both of their balance, so that Bucky fell on his ass with an ‘oof’ that Clint kissed out of his mouth as he wrapped his other arm around Bucky’s waist to keep him from toppling over altogether. Bucky wrapped his arm all the way around Clint’s neck and pulled him in, pressing them closer together because instead of feeling boxed in or trapped, he just felt cradled and protected as Clint kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. 

Bucky was lost in it, in the feel of Clint’s mouth and his stubble and his _tongue_ , and vaguely starting to wonder just what _else_ he might be ready for since Afghanistan when the sharp prick of claws up his spine startled him out of it.

“Okay, _ow_ ,” he complained, detaching himself from Clint and shimmying to try and detach the kitten from his back.

“Sorry,” Clint said, panting in a way that made Bucky feel just a little smug. “Sorry, I-”

“Not you,” Bucky said, twisting without letting go of Clint completely so that he could see the attacker on his back. “It’s whoever _that_ is.”

Clint laughed, though Bucky didn’t think all of his happiness could be attributed to finding a cat trying to climb Bucky like a tree which - _there was a thought_ \- and used the hand that had been cupping Bucky’s neck to reach out and gently detach the little culprit. When he brought it around, it was the little orange bobtail kitten that Bucky had always liked best - even though he wasn’t supposed to play favorites. 

The kitten meowed pitifully at Clint and then tried his best to escape onto Bucky’s shoulder. Clint raised an eyebrow at him and Bucky nodded, so Clint carefully sat him on Bucky’s left shoulder, steadying him until he got his feet sorted, and then the kitten meowed in Bucky’s face, somehow sounding reproachful. 

“I think he missed you,” Clint mused, as the kitten picked his way close enough to scrub his face against Bucky’s stubble, purring loudly. 

“I think he just missed my beard,” Bucky grumbled, but he rubbed his chin against the kitten’s head, belying the annoyance he was trying to project.

“Nah, he loves you, I can tell.” There was something in Clint’s voice that caught Bucky’s attention, and he looked at Clint carefully. He was looking at Bucky and the kitten - who was now gnawing on the loose strands of his hair - with an expression that was soft and open and something specific that Bucky was a little afraid to name. 

“You can tell, huh?” Bucky said, trying to make it sound humorous, but mostly it sounded wistful.

Clint shrugged. “You’re pretty easy to love. Can’t see why he wouldn’t.”

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky said, feeling fond and giddy with a nebulous _something_ swirling in his chest, and pulled Clint back down for a kiss, despite the kitten who was now rubbing against both their faces with his little fuzzy face. “And I’m renaming the kitten,” Bucky mumbled against Clint’s mouth, fitting words between kisses. “No kitten that loves me can be named Beans, that’s just rude.”

“You can call him anything you want, if you’re gonna be around to be calling him,” Clint said. “You can name every animal in the place if it’ll make you happy.”

“You make me happy,” Bucky said, kissing him again. “You’re pretty easy to love too, you know.”

Clint pulled back, startled, blinking at Bucky like he was some kind of miracle. “I-” he started, then swallowed. “I don’t-” 

Bucky waited, but he didn’t seem like he was going to get anywhere with whatever words he was wrestling with. “Kiss me again,” he said.

And Clint did. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[art] Making You A Habit - Winterhawk Big Bang 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715364) by [Soapyquartz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soapyquartz/pseuds/Soapyquartz)
  * A [Restricted Work] by [CountessOfLovelace (Original_Cypher)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/CountessOfLovelace) Log in to view. 
  * [A Name for Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125794) by [merelypassingtime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime)




End file.
